#rasek

He looked and was ignored like any other vagrant, and being a forest troll was hardly more than a blemish on an otherwise proud, beautiful Zandalari fixture. It made business easy and relaxing easier; living under the radar of otherwise watchful guards who didn't care to make sense of his thick Amani accent.

And if the warband didn't like it, they hadn't said a word. He'd seen Taz'jin beaming with pride with the Darkspear emissaries, no doubt trying to make a good impression on everyone for everyone. He'd seen Tiombi herding her wayward children to the temples and shrines, eager to help them fit in by leaving offerings to the Loa. Even the sizable forsaken population he employed seemed to be enjoying themselves.

The soft padding of bare feet against stone pierced through the haze of Rasek's lethargy. A pack of kids darted by him, arms full of fishing nets, seashells, broken poles, and driftwood. There were plenty of groups like them, mostly orphans, who busied themselves collecting “treasure” along the surf. One of them stopped before him, his blue-green skin and stout frame standing apart from the others.

“Whatcha doin dere, Riska?” His son, dressed in a tank top and shorts, dark hair tossled by the spray, was holding a knife. “An where'd ya get dat?”

Riska stuck out his lower lip and hid the knife behind his back.

“No no no, I already seen it, ya can't hide in now.” Rasek held out his hand. “Give it here.”

The boy shook his head. “No papa, it-- it's mine, I got it for my job.”

“What job? Ya five; ya don't need a job.”

Riska stamped his feet, eyes welling up with tears. A year ago he would have already devolved into a screaming tantrum, but the proximity of the other kids must have been holding him back. A little peer pressure to keep the kid in check.

“Who even gave ya a job, eh?” The older troll rolled forward, setting his drink down next to him and pulling his son closer.

“M-- Mista Nice gave me de sword an he said because I'm bigga den de u-- de udda kids dat. Dat I'm de guard an I gotta proteck dem.”

Rasek looked down at the “sword” in his son's hand. It was a crude shiv-- no more a sword than it was a rifle-- but he didn't doubt it could do some damage to an unsuspecting victim. It looked to be peeled off one of the boats, wrapped in leather and canvas around the handle, and very poorly sharpened.

Still. Nothing he wanted someone else giving his kid. Especially not if they expected him to use it.

“Can I goooo nowwww?” The boy was swaying back and forth, pouting.

Rasek sucked his teeth and climbed to his feet, flicking the remains of his cigarette towards the water. It was getting late in the afternoon, and if the guy was employing kids to do his dirty work he probably didn't keep late hours. If he wanted this cleared up by nightfall he'd really have to hoof it.

“Ya ya sure kid, go play wit ya friends. An be careful wit dat ting.”

“What're you gonna do?”

Rasek struggled with a rope looped around his foot, dangling several meters above the ground from a tree branch. His grappling hook, something he only recently learned how to use, had failed him spectacularly.

He cursed to himself, fingers pulling clumsily at the knot, feeling the blood rush to his head.

“Ya wanna...” He swatted at the Forsaken close by. “Ya wanna help me out a little bit dere, Nyd?”

The Forsaken shot him an impassive look and turned back to the overlook he was perched on.

“You look like you've got a hold on it, sir.”

“Well I-- Well I don't!”

When the news broke that the front line was marching from Orgrimmar to the coast, Rasek jumped at the opportunity. A chance to get their warband back in the good graces, a chance for a little boasting, a chance to swipe some of this azerite stuff from the coffers and see what the hubbub was all about.

Former Sergeant Nydairus was one of the only loyal men he had left who wasn't otherwise occupied. The two of them left with the first wave, and made Darkshore before nightfall.

The body of a sentinel lay not far from them, bleeding from the arrow wounds in her chest. The arrows themselves had returned to the forsaken's quiver, covered in gore as they were.

“I jes don-- Nyd! I can't-- we can't get any closa if I can't get outta de damn tree. An my daggas is eh, jes... outta reach.”

Rasek swiped at his weapons, fallen out of their sheaths, on the ground below him.

“That's correct, sir.” Nydairus shouldered his bow and looked over the lip of the ravine. “WE cannot do anything with you in that state. I'll go on ahead and see what I find.”

The old hunter was over the side of the rocks before Rasek could protest, suddenly deaf to the litany of complaints that followed behind him.

His limp after that kept him walking with a cane, and as the years dragged on he moved slower, left the hut less, relied on his wife more and more. He hadn’t said two words to his son in weeks, months, years, and when the former general visited home he noticed his father ate and drank only broth and hooch.

When Riska was born he was excited. Prouder than his grandson than he’d ever been of his son, and quick to say so. A boy with dark hair and red eyes bouncing on his knee. His good knee. Leave him here with your mother and me for a little while, Rasek. You have so much to do. You and your shitty little warband.

But no troll lives forever, and Rasek’s father was no exception. His mother firmly denied it, but he knew. The last few weeks were the nicest he’d ever been. He couldn’t remember where he was or who any of them were, but he was happy to see them, and sat with Riska in his lap and looked out at the ocean, a pipe between his lips.

Gentle. Kind. Almost like a different person.

Rasek flicked the remains of his cigarette into the water. What was he going to do now? His mother hadn’t lived alone his entire life. The village would take care of her, sure, like they were doing now. Comforting her as they wrapped his father’s body, his organs carefully jarred beside him, ready to be moved to the catacombs.

She had Juzmik’s mother with her as well; the two old women fast friends in their later years. No doubt the tattered remains of the warband were just waiting to offer their condolences to him and the family. To Riska even, though he was just turning five and wouldn’t really understand.

Sorry to hear, man. Death is hard, you know? I remember when my dad died. Need anything, you let us know. Drinks on me, man. Need any help with the kid, we’re here for you. Man. He was a great guy.

Same shit everybody says at funerals.

Footsteps on the dock brought him back to reality, and he turned his head just enough to nod in greeting. Juzmik, his hair tied back in a dark braid, his oiled leathers traded for an old lace down shirt and a pair of travelling pants.

“Thought I’d find you out here.” His accent was thick and more northerly than was typical for Revantusk, betraying his origins every time he opened his mouth. “Bout time to get movin, Ras. Mom’s lookin for ya.”

Rasek nodded again, absent-mindedly patting his breast pocket in search of another cigarette. Empty.

“I was thinking, if you want, we could try to get the old chief down here to come. Help him walk down, or whatever.” Juzmik continued. “He probably ain’t been outside for a good couple of months, yeah? Wouldn’t hurt to get him some sun, and I think some of the guys would like to see him.”

His friend snorted. Old men, crippled by war, their minds gone with the tide, being dragged out to a funeral for someone they probably couldn’t remember. That was sure to cheer everyone up.

“Whatever man. If you want.” Rasek looked back out toward the horizon.

He barely heard Juzmik’s response; the soft clarity of his voice, encouraging him not to make his mother wait much longer. She probably needed her son now, today more than any other. And her grandson, Riska, a chubby hand curled around her finger.

It would be easy not to go. It would be easy to slip around the gate by the beach, outside the walls of Revantusk and around the gathering pines that protected them from the northern winds. The path up the cliffs was scarcely guarded these days. If anyone were there at all it would be one of his own, some relic of the past that refused to believe it was over.

He could run to the steps of Jintha’alor like he did when he was a boy, and lose himself in the twists and turns of the old city until the day was done, his father buried and forgotten.

He could run to the foot of Aerie Peak, daggers drawn and sharpened and fall upon the first dwarf he saw. Patrols. Hunting. Out for a piss. A scalp was a scalp.

He could run to the elven ruins to the north, across the rickety wooden bridge that sagged beneath the weight of moss and time and rot, and wait for nightfall to beckon old ghosts from empty temples.

He could do any of that, and no one could stop him even if they wanted to. It would be easy, and painless, and maybe even a little fun.

But, what the hell. Rasek stood, rolling his shoulders and running a hand through his unkempt hair. If the old man was finally gone, some last respects for the sake of his mother wouldn’t hurt. Not too much, anyway.

He had his papers spread out around him on the ground, lacking in office space now but not about to drop the pretense, screwing up his hands as he licked his ink-covered fingers to turn a page. The death knight standing before him watched this happen for several minutes, saying nothing but filing it away for later.

“Sarj.” Rasek finally spoke up, not lifting his eyes from the ledger.

“Sir.” Sarjen offered a brief nod.

“We gotta get in on some a de stuff out here.” He paused for a moment to let Sarjen respond. Nothing came. “I seen people, every day I tink, people comin out here sayin dey got jobs for dis an dat ting, stuff all ova. Dealin wit cultists an tings for real money.”

Sarjen nodded. “Certainly, sir. It seems several groups have been contracted out to deal with a slight resurgence in cult activity across the kingdoms and Kalimdor.”

Debt cultists. The cult of the gold. The Benevolent Order of Shinegrab. The Evil League of Anti-Good Moneytake. Badfist Coinsuck & Co., Bend Me Over and Rob Me Blind, LLC.

The smaller troll ran these obvious threats through his mind, nodding along to his own narrative as Sarjen watched, hands clasped behind his back.

“So here’s what I got for ya, Sarj. We need one a dem contracts for ourselves. Ya know, get our name back out dere, make some chedda, maybe kill a guy or two, eh? Dat’s what guys like you need, eh? Killin a guy? Drinkin de blood? Fistin de corpse? So maybe we get one a dem, an I send ya out dere an ya get to work, get whateva it is dey ask for, an dey be so damn impressed dey give us anudda one. Whateva work ya do, Sarj, I know dey gonna be real impressed. Heads on spikes an tings. Right?”

Sarjen shifted his weight. He wasn’t surprised Rasek called on him, nor was he especially unhappy about being dragged away from babysitting duty—Juzmik’s newly born twins were a bit much to handle and he’d never been excellent with children—but there were a few snags. A few very big, obvious snags. Bear trap style snags.

“With all due respect, sir,” He put a thick layer of ice on the word, “The warband hasn’t been paid in several months, myself included. Juzmik is feeding Tik and Tak out of his savings, and most of our soldiers have been laid off and found work elsewhere. How do you expect to compensate me for my time, exactly?”

He looked down at the ledger and Rasek’s scowl hovering above it.

“I know the math, Major-General.” He nodded at the book. “It’s quite clear you have no means to pay me for my service and I can quite easily reach that salary doing nothing at all.”

Rasek slid the ledger closer to him, his scarred face twisted with annoyance. He was used to the largely illiterate rabble reporting to him, and a good desk to keep pesky death knights from reading everything he had written. It was a miracle, in all honesty, that the old knight was able to read Rasek’s handwriting at all. His largely self-taught alphabet was riddled with mistakes and personal quirks, but numbers were numbers and Sarjen’s strength lay within.

“And Juzmik?” He spat, still scowling. “He want ya just LAZIN around, playin mama to him kids, pickin up de groceries an foldin clothes, eh? Dat why ya still carry dat axe wit ya? Eh? I know ya need to use it to stay sane, Sarj. I ain’t stupid. Ya stay stagnant like dat too long ya gonna lose it, an dey gonna put ya down like dey did to Ezzran.”

Sarjen stiffened at the thought. Ezzran standing at the heart of Zul’Aman, laughing and shouting as the elves moved in on him, the ability to think, to feel , to make a good choice long gone. His woman and her loss after it was over.

It was true, he’d been struggling with the domestic life since the warband went under. Taking out dwarves and Vilebranch who ventured too close to Revantusk land was keeping him grounded enough, but eventually they’d stop coming close, and he’d have to go farther and farther into their territory to eat. Dangerous. He had a family of sorts now. And if the warband was able to make money again, well… maybe Juzmik would…

Rasek smiled at him, gravestone teeth between a mess of scars and framed by yellowed tusks.

“Whatcha say, Sarj? A job for old time’s sake?”

The old knight straightened his shoulders, the fires of Icecrown burning cold deep within his eyes.

But why? Zaezha was beautiful, smarter than people gave her credit for. She was quick and skilled with a bow, good to the warband, kind and funny and fun and wonderful and sweet, so sweet, and she kissed his furrowed, ugly brow and too-dry lips and told him he was a silly boy.

Such a silly boy.

Rasek rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. It was too late to be up, too early to pretend he’d slept. Riska behind would be out for another couple of hours, heavy sleeper that he was. Nearly four now. Four whole years. Two since they’d seen her last.

He bit hard on his lower lip, covering the pain in his chest with a choked cough. What kind of troll loses his wife? What kind of troll leaves his son behind? Learn to read, learn to write. Leave your home, your tribe, and join the Horde, for what? To wear elven cologne and silk shirts, and carry daggers finer than anything you could get in Revantusk? What good is it if you can’t even keep your wife? Can’t even raise your own boy.

His father’s words, spoken with his back turned. His mother, her eyes on the floor, squeezing Riska’s chubby little hand as he watched, and listened.

Maybe he was right. Rasek reached for another cigarette, hands shaking despite the heat of Ramkahen. He was nothing to be proud of, nothing to admire. Zaezha was gone. Riska was with him now, but when he got older, he’d see the metal beneath the gold finish, the flakes and cracks and rust, and he too would disappear.

Their room was high enough. A single window overlooked a sandstone courtyard and the banks of the Vir’naal River, calm and quiet in the early morning. It would kill him, if he just fell. Hit his head or his neck, let the world slide into black. It wouldn’t be so bad, not that part. The warband would be fine without him anyway. All he did was keep records straight and hand out gold. Maybe a harsh word here and there to remind everyone who was in charge. He doubted anyone even considered him a friend.

Deep breath. But…

The boy behind him stirred in his sleep, a soft contented sigh slipping out from beneath the sheet. What would happen to Riska? Who would take care of him? His father, old and crippled, telling him his mother ran away and his father was a coward? Juzmik with his peculiar dead partner, the two of them teaching him how to count bones, sew flesh, and pour drinks for drunks on Saturday nights?

Umcha would lose him again. He couldn’t even imagine the kind of weird, cryptic stuff Taz’jin would put a child through, harmless as he thought it may be. Tiombi, maybe? Cracking under pressure, leaving him behind for Moonglade again and again and again.

Rasek rubbed his eyes again, cigarette all but forgotten. If ever a troll was shadow dust and restless death, eyes and ears navigating from an empty mind, it was him. And perhaps one day he’d allow himself to crumble, to sit back in his armor home in Revantusk next to his old friend, his warchief, and lose his mind to the dreams and fears of younger men as Yarbo had.